


Reflections

by motomoyo



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-04-29 15:34:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5132846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motomoyo/pseuds/motomoyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legolas is summoned to Minas Tirith for something he's known has been coming for a long, long time. Aragorn's at the end of his life, and there must be goodbyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reflections

**Author's Note:**

> Sparked from a Skype convo with a friend. Oops! HAVE SOME PAIN.

When the summons had come, Legolas had not had to ask their reason. He knew. He had always known this day would come, and as more years had passed he had felt a growing dread of how near it must be. 

And so, when it had come, he had received it well, and had calmly donned his traveling wear and left for the White City. 

Calm he was still when Arwen received him; tears only came when she had set slender cool fingers on either side of his face, fondness and grief warring heavily in her eyes. 

“I hold no ill towards either of you. I have always known.”

—

“I fear our journeys are at an end, my friend,” Aragorn chuckled when they were alone, and oh Valar, how his voice sounded so weak. 

The elven prince folded himself into the bed, care taken to not jostle. Slender pale fingers traced those worn features, beard of grey and hair so streaked with white. Age had been kind, in some ways. It had not battered the once-King; he was still handsome, still Aragorn, but for that Legolas cared little. 

His smile was brittle. “Do not say such things.” 

The aged King grimaced. “Do not pretend such things are untrue. Allow me that.” 

“Our journeys are never finished. They live forever in tale and memory. Do not deny me that, Aragorn, son of Arathorn.”

—

Their companionship had been an odd thing. Neither could say when it had started; it had just been. In a time when a young Ranger, so hunted and lonely and world-weary at an age where most were only beginning to find their way, a ray of light had entered his life. 

It had taken years for them to acknowledge. Years of traveling together, separating and meeting again months later, until one night ended with both of them seated upon a jutting precipice overlooking a great valley. The night had been cold, the air stark and brittle, the stars overhead shining with a brilliant clarity. 

The kiss was not one of hunger, and neither could say which had leaned in first. It just was — the natural extension of them, of their being, of who they were. 

The lingering taste of pipe smoke and the warmth under chapped and night-chilled lips, the scrape of beard against delicate skin, the touch of calloused fingers against a smooth cheek, as the night spilled eternal around them. 

—

Legolas pulled the broken King close, urging his head to lay upon his chest. It was a comfort; the steady beating of that heart both so ancient and young at once against one that labored in his own chest reminded him of so many things. 

He was so tired. 

“I was never one to deny you anything.” The words were low, exhaled on a sigh, both amused and pointed at once. 

Legolas smiled, trailing fingers through greying hair. “That I know. Do you remember Helm’s Deep?” 

“I do. But it would do my heart good to hear it told again.” 

“You’re still insufferable.” 

—

Legolas had known he had not fallen; he knew not how, but he had known. The future King of Gondor could not be felled by a single orc. 

But, still, when Aragorn had burst through that doors, the prince felt such relief that he could barely restrain himself from gripping that filthy tunic and dragging the ranger into an embrace in front of men and Gods all. 

It had surprised him, though, when he had made his way to Aragorn’s quarters that night and found him pensive and uncharacteristically vulnerable. 

“Many will die tomorrow,” he had said, voice hoarse.

“Yes,” Legolas had agreed, coming up behind to lay a hand on an uninjured shoulder. 

Those grey eyes that had turned toward him then were full of a tragic grief, and Legolas had kissed him, soft and yielding. 

“I don’t know that I can-–“

“Let us remember life this night, Aragorn.”

It had been slow, that night. It was not the fierce coupling of warriors that had marked so many of their times together. Slow kisses, a gasp into each other’s mouths as Aragorn pushed himself within, the fire slow-kindled and long-burning, bodies moving together with the intent to make this night be burned forever into memory. 

They had lain together a long time after, fingers brushing through hair until finally the restless would-be King was lulled into sleep. The elf did not leave him that night until the necessity of secrecy demanded it, and even then it was with great reluctance. 

He remembered the night had been cloudy, the sky heavy with the promise of a storm oncoming.

—

So wrapped up in memory and words had the elf become that he had failed to realize when his companion’s breathing had evened, and he let his words trail. 

His features twisted, and he trailed a thumb along those aged lines that marked the King’s eyes. “Get Arwen,” he called, louder, to the guards standing outside the door, and when they had departed his voice became small. 

“Go home with my love, Aragorn, Estel, Elessar.”

—

They had seen little of each other in those days after the war. Duty and necessity had drawn them apart; Aragorn found love in his wife and children, and Legolas did not wish to disturb that familial peace. 

Some bonds, however, could never be denied forever. 

They met, now and then, and it never failed despite promises to the contrary that they would find themselves wrapped in each other again, guilt and love warring like two rabbits trying to escape down the same hole. 

But they could never deny each other anything. 

Aragorn warred with it, Legolas could tell. “What kind of husband am I?” he once asked, voice heavy. 

Legolas had no answer. 

—

It was not long in coming. Delicate elven ears could hear the moment that heart slowed, stopped, when the last breath was exhaled from aged lungs. And when it did, with Arwen’s fingers curled around both their hands, Legolas at last allowed his grief to spill forth, tears streaking unbidden down his face. 

Outside, the bells tolled, long peals that echoed through the evening air. The stars were bright, clear and pointed in the dark sky, unmoving and eternal.


End file.
